Ruth Herne - Yuletide Hearts

Chapter Three

Matt recognized Hank Marek’s name and answered his phone quickly, praying for a “yes.”

“We’re in, Matt.”

Thank you. Matt breathed the thought heavenward, knowing what even a day’s delay could mean this time of year. They’d already been hammered by squalls packing hail, wind and rain. Time was of the essence.

“Everything’s being delivered tomorrow morning,” Matt told him. “I started roof examination today, but my day got chopped by having to order supplies.”

“We’ll be there at eight,” Hank promised. “Callie works the lunch shift in town, but she’s got Wednesdays off, so we’ll have her all day tomorrow.”

“What about Thursday?” Matt asked, assuring himself it was strictly a job-related inquiry.

Yeah, right.

“She’ll split things up. She’ll crew with us, then the diner, then back here.”

Matt knew how abbreviated days curtailed time frames, but did his frustration stem from Callie’s prior commitment or…

No.

He refused to go there. Callie would be working for him. Matt didn’t mix business with pleasure, no matter how intrigued he was by soft brown hair and gold-green eyes.

“That’s her job,” Hank continued.

It didn’t take good math skills to realize roofing paid more, but Matt liked people that honored their commitments. His mother forgot she had a child when the world discovered he was Neal Brennan’s illegitimate son. He was eight years old when life capsized. His mother sought solace in a string of random men, while his stepfather found comfort in a bottle. That left no one around to raise an eight-year-old kid with learning problems. Jake’s age, he realized.

“But Buck and Tommy are available whenever. With respect to Tom’s age I wouldn’t put him on the tallest roofs, but he’s sure-handed and has a good eye. And quick.”

“He’s welcome, then. Anyone else you can think of, Hank?”

A moment’s hesitation followed, then Hank offered, “Your um—” indecision lingered in the older man’s voice, his tone “—father’s in town.”

“Stepfather, you mean.”

“I guess.”

Matt didn’t blame Hank for sidestepping the issue. When your biological father turns out to be the wealthy but drug-using, gambling vice-president of a local big business, Walker Electronics, the poor guy who’d been publicly emasculated took a hard hit. Don Cavanaugh became the classic definition of deadbeat dad, but because he wasn’t Matt’s dad, Matt guessed the expression didn’t apply.

But it hit hard when the guy you called dad for eight years walked away and never looked back because of biology. That hurt, big time.

“He crewed with me a few times when I really needed help,” Hank explained further.

“Then you know he’s fairly unreliable on a day-to-day basis.”

“When he’s drinking, you’re right. He’s sober right now.”

Sobriety was temporary in Don Cavanaugh’s life, a hit-and-miss condition Matt would rather miss. “I can’t trust him.”

“Then I won’t mention this when he’s around. He’ll notice when you change the sign, though.”

“How?” Matt’s father had no reason to be this far out of town and he hated the cold and snow. He’d race to Florida once the weather turned just like he had years ago, leaving Matt with his drama-queen mother.

Face front, eyes forward. No flashbacks, got it?

“Don comes by for coffee and soup with the other boys from time to time.”

Which meant he’d see them working on Matt’s new project, and the inevitable face-to-face meeting. “I can’t have him over here, especially right now. I’ve got to get my bearings for this job. Find my comfort zone.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

“See you in the morning.”

Matt disconnected the call and walked outside the house, eyeing the gloaming shadows beneath a waning gibbous moon.

A noise drew his attention to the Marek place. In the almost dark he saw Callie’s silhouette, captured by the porch light. She clambered down the ladder, a bucket in hand, its weight making the descent awkward. At the bottom she splashed water onto the street, then headed for the side porch, humming.

Pride and strength embraced her maverick beauty. The idea of working for him obviously bothered her, but if she was as experienced as Hank made out, he was glad for the help.

Lights blinked on in the front of their house and he caught a glimpse of Callie and the boy, heads bent, eyeing something, a family moment that resurrected all he’d missed as a child. A father’s love. A mother’s touch.

He headed into the nearly complete model home, studied the mattress and box spring on the floor, the small generator outside giving him power for minimal light and heat. He’d surrendered his apartment in Nunda because the commute would eat up too much time. And saving nearly seven hundred dollars a month was nothing to take lightly. Wear and tear on the truck, his equipment? That took their toll over time.

No, better to headquarter himself here, on the job site, guarding his investment.

The house wasn’t certified for dwelling, so Matt would have to sequester his sleeping arrangements when the inspector came by, at least until he could get a certificate of occupancy on the model. He’d complete that once the roofs were in place on the other houses, his first-things-first mentality key to this situation. Then he’d set up properly upstairs, but for the moment, this would do. He set his alarm clock early to take a shot at bookkeeping, not one of his strongholds, and burrowed under the covers, burying dreams of heat. And a woman with gold-green eyes.

“He’s staying over there.” Callie jerked her head west, her hands plunged into soapy dishwater the next morning.

“Makes sense,” Hank replied as he gathered their tool belts and supplies. “Why pay rent when you’ve got a nearly finished house?”

“Because Finch McGee will be all over that if he finds out,” Callie replied. She wiped her hands, waved goodbye to Jake as the bus approached, then headed to the table.

“Finch is a little power-hungry,” Hank admitted.

“A little?”

Hank shrugged. “He’s got a job to do, Cal. You know that. He just does it with more zeal than most.”

“Maybe Matt will be lucky and Colby will be his inspector.” Colby Dennis had taken the job as Finch’s assistant two years before, and he was a decent guy on all levels. Finch?

Callie’d been privy to more than one run-in with the divorced building inspector, and she knew a jerk when she saw one. She’d kept him at arm’s length, but he’d taken to coming into the diner at lunchtime lately, when he’d always eaten at the Texas Hot before. And it wasn’t a fluke that put him in her section, day after day, any more than it was coincidence that she traded tables with the other servers, keeping him at bay.

“Finch won’t let the new kid on the block oversee this.” Hank shifted his gaze to Cobbled Creek as they headed down the stone drive. “And while his inspections are all right, he doesn’t have a lick of common sense when it comes to balancing economics.”

“Ready, guys?” Buck grinned at them, crumpled his coffee cup and set it inside his truck cab.

“I am,” declared Tommy, a knit hat drawn over his bald head, a thick flannel layered over a turtleneck.

“You expectin’ a blizzard, Tom?” Hank teased.

“I’m expecting it’s cold now and warmin’ up later,” shot back the older man, “and I’ve crewed with you often enough to know that cold and number of hours don’t mean all that much.”

“I knew I liked you.” Matt smiled as he approached the group. “Supplies are due to arrive in three hours and Jim Slaughter should be here anytime with his equipment. Hank, can you get these guys together on inspecting the roofs, marking any part that needs to be redone while I finish a few phone calls?”